Wind tears through the trees, biting at my skin as I continue struggling with the buttons on the thick leather jacket I picked up at the thrift store last week. I force my sluggish feet to move forward through the snow, each step more exhausting than the previous.

More than six inches of snow have fallen over the past two hours, the slush now soaking into the bottom of my jeans as it touches my always warm skin.

A twig snaps behind me, and I twirl, dagger drawn and ready to strike. I scan through the seemingly empty streets, my eyes straining to see through the thick flurries around me.

The feeling that I am being watched has more than doubled since yesterday, not long after I found the small, handwritten note tucked under the battered mat by the door.

'Leave. Immediately,' it had warned.

The message was vague, but it was enough to deter me from continuing my plans for the day and send me to the airport instead.

Maybe I am being followed. Or maybe this is just the general wave of paranoia that comes with walking the streets of Salt Lake City alone at night. The crime rate here might be lower than in other places in the United States, but from what I have experienced in my life, statistics don't always ring true, and I have a way of attracting trouble.

I'm like a damned beacon for it.

Another gust of wind tears at me, and I cram my hands back into my pockets, trying hard not to dwell too much over the fact that there are places in the world that aren't experiencing below-freezing temperatures right now, places where I could be flaunting a bikini while lounging by a pool and sipped brightly colored cocktails.

Why the hell did I pick Utah as my hiding place?

'Because they know you love the warm weather. Because you knew this is the last place in the world they'd come looking for you,' I remind myself. 'Looks like you were wrong again, doesn't it?'

Warmth floods into the hall as I open the door to the one-bedroom apartment I have been calling home and step inside. I take a few moments to gather my thoughts and look over my belongings.

Everything looks just as I left it, so why do I feel like something is off?

My stomach growls noisily as I slip out of my drenched jeans and into a semi-clean pair of maroon sweatpants. I kick at the pile of dirty laundry that has accumulated by the loveseat.

Despite my persistent tone and frequent calls to the airport, there have been no last-minute cancellations that I could coop up. I had even gone as far as letting know that price was of no issue, a comment that would have landed me a cozy seat in first class in the past but had gotten me nowhere instead.

Six hours. Thanks to this damn blizzard, I have six hours until my chance to hop on the first plane, train, or bus headed out of here.

My fridge is practically bare as I pull out the three-day-old Thai takeout carton, sniffing it and praying that nothing has begun to grow on it.

Most days, I would have sucked it up and trekked down to the twenty-four-hour corner store, but that is not an option today, not when there are people lurking in the streets leaving ominous notes outside my door.

It has been almost a full twelve hours since I last ate. While this might not seem like much because the average human can go a few days without eating before it becomes a serious issue, it is far too long for someone like me. Thanks to my 'condition,' as I like to call it, I require some nourishment every four hours before my body begins threatening to shut down and one hell of a migraine kicks in.

A familiar chill skates over my skin, and I turn, launching the dagger in my pocket across the room. It buries itself into the wall, mere inches from the idiot who tried to sneak up on me.

I cock my head to the side and take in the unforgettable man standing across from me. I take in the platinum hair styled into a perfect quiff, the tall height, sculpted muscles, and the ice-blue eyes of someone who has spent far too much time learning to kill with minimal effort.

He looks more like a model than a killer, looking beyond striking in his black peacoat, grey cashmere sweater, and black slacks. Even now, after having marched through piles of snow to get here, nothing about him is out of place.

It has been a little over two years since I last saw Jeremiah Ragale, the man who was my partner during my time at the Department of Supernatural Affairs, but even if hell had frozen over and he decided to stray from his signature look, I would still recognize that arrogant smirk anywhere.

He glances over his shoulder at the dagger as if it were never a threat to him.

"Glad to see those instincts of yours are still intact," he muses casually, removing the weapon from the wall to twirl it between his fingers like one might do with a coin. "Too bad your aim has gone to shit."

I brandish the dagger's twin. "That was a warning shot. Trust me, Jeremiah, we both know my aim will never be that bad. It is just as precise as you remember. Now, tell me what you want."

"Cut the shit." His voice is cold, void of warmth and any emotion. "Stop pretending like you haven't been waiting for something like this to happen. I have been watching you all day, and you have been your version of paranoid as hell. You knew this was coming; you just didn't know when."

He's right; I have been expecting this. In fact, there has never been a time when I expected the DSA to give up their pursuit of me, and it is the main reason I have kept my guard up all these years.

Too bad that damn airline was set in their ways. It would have made my whole damn life to know that Jeremiah had arrived here to find nothing but stale food, dirty laundry, and a note telling him to go fuck himself.

"Why you?"

"Would you believe me if I said I volunteered?" He spins the dagger a final time before tossing it over to me.

I easily catch it between two fingers, sliding it and its twin back into my jacket pocket.

"Who all did you bring with you?" My eyes flit towards the door, and from where I am standing, it appears the lock is still securely in place. This means he either managed to slip in after I came home without me noticing, or he's been here for a while, and someone else's eyes were on me. "Max? Jenna? The Chief himself? No, that man wouldn't drag his ass out of that building if it was on fire. Don't try and fool me into believing that you came alone because, after what happened in Tulsa, there is no way they'd be foolish enough to let you come on your own, not after something like me."

He gives me an appreciative nod. "Peter. I left him out in the hall just in case I needed him. I considered bringing him in here with me, but stealth has never been his thing, and I know he would spook you before we had a chance to talk."

"Peter, huh?" I run my fingers through my knotted hair before twisting it into a messy bun. "The DSA must be feeling pretty lost right now without its two best agents roaming the streets. Tell me, how did you manage to get him on a plane?"

Jeremiah removes the stylish peacoat and drapes it across the back of the chair, seated at my poor excuse for a dining room table. "He was pretty much game for anything once he heard that it was you that I was venturing out here to collect. As it turns out, more than a few agents are willing to leave the comforts of home if it means lending a hand in bringing in one of the DSA's most wanted. Peter, however, was the obvious choice because I knew he'd never go soft on me if things went south, and I needed to get a bit rough with you."

I slide into the empty seat across from him and rest my hands on the table, Jeremiah mimicking my action. We may be on opposing sides at the moment, but the simple gesture lets the other know they are not planning a blitz attack.

"The obvious choice, eh? I guess that means he is still a bit sour about my breaking his nose?" I smile, remembering the last time I saw the man waiting in the hall.

Peter Welch, Jeremiah's first choice in partner when it came to missions that might involve violence, was more muscle than he was anything else, brains included. He possesses twice the strength of most Fae males and is five times more lethal. The only time we squared up ended up with his nose shattered into multiple pieces, a grudge he seems to be holding onto as tightly as ever.

Taking a loss like that from the one and only female field agent in the DSA would have bruised more than just his face.

Jeremiah lets out a soft chuckle. "Maybe just a little."

"How long will we be taking this trip down memory lane before we reach your point? What exactly are you doing here, and why are you not trying to cuff me already?"

"You escaped a maximum security supernatural prison, leaving six guards injured and four dead, went on the run, and then added that stunt in Tulsa to the list," he begins, reaching across the table to place a pair of red crystal cuffs in front of me. The long, faded scars on my wrist spasm, my body remembering what happened the last time it came into contact with a pair similar to those. "I am here to bring you in."

There are few very things in this realm, or any other realm for that matter, that can keep someone from using their magik, but these particular crystals happen to be one of them. Slapping a pair of those bad boys on someone results in instantaneous pain that engulfs your entire body and increases the more you struggle. The torture doesn't end until they are removed, and even after that, the memory of that pain lasts a lifetime.

I have only had to wear them for a maximum of four hours, and even then, I came close to clawing my own skin off.

My mind begins to formulate an escape plan. "Not happening. There is no way in hell those are touching me, so you might as well call Peter and whoever else you have lurking around out there because this plan of yours is a no-go."

I push back in my seat, moving away from the table and towards the closet where I keep my emergency duffel bag. If the DSA was dumb enough to send only two agents to collect me, then I stand a good chance of getting out of here with only minor injuries.

"Someone has been killing Ayngels," Jeremiah announces, ignoring my order, and I can't tell if it's because he thinks he will be getting his way or if it is because he wants to show me that I am no longer in charge. "Five bodies have already been found over the past three weeks, all of them severely mutilated and with their wings torn off. Not cut off, but torn completely off."

My body goes rigid. "You think a Son is behind the murders?"

"Not think; we know it is one of them. There are only two creatures in all the realms capable of taking down an Ayngel, let alone ripping its wings clear off, and I am staring at one of them. You've been hiding out in a variety of shit-holes for the past year and a half, which means one of those creatures is not a suspect. The problem is that we don't know which Son is doing the killing, and the last thing we want is to accuse the wrong one."

"Sounds like you have one hell of a personal problem on your hands." I toss the bag over my shoulder. "None of this has anything to do with me, not anymore. Any loyalty I might have had for the DSA died the moment they locked me away for no reason."

Jeremiah finally moves from his seat. "As ironic as this sounds, I am here to offer you a deal. Now, you might want to listen because I am only going to make this offer once, and it is only valid until you get violent. If you come back with me willingly to the DSA and help us catch the Son responsible for the murders, then you will get your life back. That means no more warrants, no more contracts, no more hiding in frozen locations, and no more running. The Chief is willing to overlook your past indiscretions as long as you are willing to adhere to the rules set in place while you are assisting us."

"See, I knew there had to be a reason you volunteered to come."

He shrugs. "What can I say? I'm the sentimental type."

"What's the catch? I hunt down your killer, and then I get to go free, just like that? Doesn't add up."

Jeremiah releases a sigh, sliding his arms through his jacket as he eyes the Rolex on his wrist. "Look, I don't have the time to review every little detail because I am already behind schedule. The Chief will bring you up to par once we arrive, but, as it was explained to me, there are no added stipulations."

"Why me? Why go through all the trouble of tracking me down to try and convince me to hunt down a Son."

"You know why. So are we doing this or not?"

I consider all of my options at the moment, aware that declining means having to fight my way out of here. I fling the front door open to smile up at the sandy-haired agent looming in the doorway.

If it weren't for the fact that he is a brainless hothead with a serious gripe against me, Peter would have been precisely the kind of guy I would spend a night in bed with. He's handsome, but not in the almost flawless way that most Fae males were. No, Peter wore his scars proudly. He was a mass of artfully sculpted muscle, tanned skin, and golden eyes that made others weak in the knees. He was far from flawless, but that was his appeal. He looked like he knew how to handle himself in any situation, and before I got to know him, that was what made me interested in him.

"Hey E, you're looking worse for wear these days," Peter greets, cowling down at my un-cuffed wrists. "Damn, going so easily? You sure as hell know how to suck the fun out of a perfectly good vacation."